Valentine’s Day gifts, Mr. Sinclair with his Socratic classroom. “How dare you do this to a colleague of mine? One of the nicest people in this college.”
Ms. Vanderwerp was genuinely kind, it was true, and no genuine kindness could exist without vulnerability here.
“You girls should be ashamed of yourselves.”
And all of a sudden, we were.
Even Chelsea’s sneer was wiped from her face. We were all ashamed, deeply ashamed. This was not like the Growler growling at us, telling us we should be ashamed of ourselves, all day, every day, for every trivial transgression, like wearing our ribbons crisscrossed around our ponytails or speaking up accidentally at the same time a teacher was speaking. This was real shame, because we respected Mr. Sinclair.
“All of you—you, Sammy. You, Caitlin. You, Gina…”
“But, sir, I didn’t do anything!” protested Gina.
He looked at her. He didn’t have to say anything. He was telling her off with his eyes, and it probably dawned on Gina at that moment that having this achingly handsome older man telling her off did not elicit the same sweetly masochistic feelings that Elizabeth Bennet had when Mr. Darcy yelled at her.
It was frightening to be really
put in your place.
“You girls think that your charm will get you things in life,” Mr. Sinclair said to us. “But let me tell you how wrong you are.”
And he did. Chelsea became defensive. Her chin was up, and her light brown ponytail sashayed like a thoroughbred pony.
While the Growler had been focused on catching the culprits, waiting to see which one of us would rat on our mates, Mr. Sinclair didn’t seem to care who had done it. In his eyes, we all had.
“In your adult lives, if you did anything like what you’ve done here today, you would be fired from your jobs. You’re insulated because of your privilege, but you won’t be insulated forever.”
Gina had her head down. Little gasping sounds were coming from her corner of the room, and Meredith put an arm around her.
“Now, tell me, why did you feel the need to pull something like this?”
I saw in an instant how self-deluded we’d been, thinking that a class of fifteen-year-olds could make a grown man feel bumbling and awkward. We had nothing over Mr. Sinclair. He was his own person, with his own wife and son, and he didn’t care what we thought. Even his bumbling charm might have been an act. This didn’t make me lose respect for him; I saw it as a necessary strategy against us.
None of us could look at him.
—
We were kept back again for fifteen minutes after school, so that the Growler could again try to weed out the culprit. When she finally let us go, Chelsea burst out laughing.
“Vile, dees-pick-able act of bullying,”
she shrieked in a theatrical voice. “Stupid old cow.”
“Now, tell me”
—Gina, who was following behind, did her own imitation—“
why did you feel the need to pull something like this?
The only thing he pulls is himself!” Her face was still blotchy red, though, and I expected the waterworks would resume as soon as she got in her mother’s car.
I had missed my bus back to the station and my train back to Stanley. I came home an hour late, but I couldn’t tell my parents the reason. Can you imagine, Linh? I don’t think Dad even knew what the offending object was, and Mum thought that using one meant you were no longer chaste.
What I thought about that evening was something strange Mrs. Grey had said. She’d called the stunt a vile, despicable act of bullying. But couldn’t students only bully other students? No student was supposed to be able to bully a teacher. But the Cabinet had done just that.
—
When things go well at a girls’ school, they go soaringly well. Gallons of self-esteem, girls allowing their comic genius or sporting prowess to shine through, no boys around to make them feel coy. Do you remember, back at Christ Our Savior, when Zarhar did such a good Elvis impersonation that she was
Ms. Vanderwerp was genuinely kind, it was true, and no genuine kindness could exist without vulnerability here.
“You girls should be ashamed of yourselves.”
And all of a sudden, we were.
Even Chelsea’s sneer was wiped from her face. We were all ashamed, deeply ashamed. This was not like the Growler growling at us, telling us we should be ashamed of ourselves, all day, every day, for every trivial transgression, like wearing our ribbons crisscrossed around our ponytails or speaking up accidentally at the same time a teacher was speaking. This was real shame, because we respected Mr. Sinclair.
“All of you—you, Sammy. You, Caitlin. You, Gina…”
“But, sir, I didn’t do anything!” protested Gina.
He looked at her. He didn’t have to say anything. He was telling her off with his eyes, and it probably dawned on Gina at that moment that having this achingly handsome older man telling her off did not elicit the same sweetly masochistic feelings that Elizabeth Bennet had when Mr. Darcy yelled at her.
It was frightening to be really
put in your place.
“You girls think that your charm will get you things in life,” Mr. Sinclair said to us. “But let me tell you how wrong you are.”
And he did. Chelsea became defensive. Her chin was up, and her light brown ponytail sashayed like a thoroughbred pony.
While the Growler had been focused on catching the culprits, waiting to see which one of us would rat on our mates, Mr. Sinclair didn’t seem to care who had done it. In his eyes, we all had.
“In your adult lives, if you did anything like what you’ve done here today, you would be fired from your jobs. You’re insulated because of your privilege, but you won’t be insulated forever.”
Gina had her head down. Little gasping sounds were coming from her corner of the room, and Meredith put an arm around her.
“Now, tell me, why did you feel the need to pull something like this?”
I saw in an instant how self-deluded we’d been, thinking that a class of fifteen-year-olds could make a grown man feel bumbling and awkward. We had nothing over Mr. Sinclair. He was his own person, with his own wife and son, and he didn’t care what we thought. Even his bumbling charm might have been an act. This didn’t make me lose respect for him; I saw it as a necessary strategy against us.
None of us could look at him.
—
We were kept back again for fifteen minutes after school, so that the Growler could again try to weed out the culprit. When she finally let us go, Chelsea burst out laughing.
“Vile, dees-pick-able act of bullying,”
she shrieked in a theatrical voice. “Stupid old cow.”
“Now, tell me”
—Gina, who was following behind, did her own imitation—“
why did you feel the need to pull something like this?
The only thing he pulls is himself!” Her face was still blotchy red, though, and I expected the waterworks would resume as soon as she got in her mother’s car.
I had missed my bus back to the station and my train back to Stanley. I came home an hour late, but I couldn’t tell my parents the reason. Can you imagine, Linh? I don’t think Dad even knew what the offending object was, and Mum thought that using one meant you were no longer chaste.
What I thought about that evening was something strange Mrs. Grey had said. She’d called the stunt a vile, despicable act of bullying. But couldn’t students only bully other students? No student was supposed to be able to bully a teacher. But the Cabinet had done just that.
—
When things go well at a girls’ school, they go soaringly well. Gallons of self-esteem, girls allowing their comic genius or sporting prowess to shine through, no boys around to make them feel coy. Do you remember, back at Christ Our Savior, when Zarhar did such a good Elvis impersonation that she was
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